A Game of Chess
by Verok
Summary: Erestor, chief counselor to Elrond, harbors a secret lust for Arwen - and a hatred for Aragorn. Yet, he doesn't realize how fatal his emotions would be to his reputation, if revealed - or how well the Evenstar can play his own game of guile.
1. A Hatred Born

A Game of Chess: Chapter One

A Hatred Born

Rating: PG-13 (for future violence, certain inappropriate scenes, and what not). Rating will be eventually upped to an R.

Genre: Angst/Drama/Romance. Erestor, chief counselor to Elrond, harbors secret emotions that may be fatal to his reputation if discovered. In particular, animosity towards Isildur's heir, and contrary sentiments for Arwen. Takes place during the Fellowship's stay in Rivendell; co-stars other characters.

Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters, for they are property of JRR Tolkien, creator of Middle-Earth. And as for all original characters, perhaps they own themselves.

A/N: Read, review, and flame at your whim. Constructive criticism and plot suggestions always welcome. I sort of have a liking for elf-dramas; I have two others in the works, _The Carnival of Sovereigns_ and _A Tale of Lothlorien Woods_. Unlike the previous two, however, this elf-drama has all the characters of the Fellowship and non-elf supporting cast in it (alright, maybe not all, but most of them). Also, I thought Elrond's reaction to his own right-hand man lusting after his precious daughter would be

Ahem *cough cough*and there's always poor Aragorn's reaction, too

So, let the madness commence

A Game of Chess

A Hatred Born

Arwen Undomiel, the elven Evenstar, sat in her favorite armchair upon one of the many marble terraces of Rivendell. In her hand was held a half-finished shawl, netted out of gray silk cord; upon the plinth of the marble column next to her was perched a tray scattered with the pearls and white stones she was embroidering her handiwork with. The silver needle in her small hands would flick, in and out, in and out; and sometimes it would stop at intervals when its user would lift her head and gaze out at the lush paradise, keen elven ears picking up a particularly sweet bird-call. But it had been such a long time since needlework and fair sights were able to give avail to her precarious emotions. Aragorn had practically vanished into the wild; a few years ago she had heard her father Elrond speaking of how he and Gandalf the Grey had met up in Mirkwood, and were seeing to confidential business in that woodland; but that was all she had heard of him ever since they had parted in Lothlorien, some thirty years and more ago.

Out of the corner of her eye a pair of leather boots appeared in the portal, stopping just as they entered. Arwen, still bent over her embroidery, did not lift her head up to see who the boots belonged to — but a faint chill resounded through her heart, and she shuddered ever so slightly. The echo of trepidation within her prevented her curiosity from taking the better of her. She almost knew who stood in those shiny black things, and she dreaded him — it was not her father, for he never wore black on his feet — and it could not have been _him - _Estel. They approached slowly, the sound of their falling echoing throughout the terrace; and at length they halted — barely a yard from where her own sandal-clad feet rested. But, motivated by a sudden rush of courage and defiance, her curiosity won, and, pausing her movements, she glanced up at the intruder. And as soon as the courage had come on, it faded away again — to be replaced by disappointment. For it was indeed, him,; not her love, the Dunedain, but the very one she had guessed and dreaded.

Erestor, chief counselor and advisor to Lord Elrond, stood in front of Arwen, clad in his usual velvet floes of black and underlying silver. A slight pink tinge lingered in his otherwise pale cheeks — an unusual sight upon the face of an elf lord of his stature — and his dark irises flickered with an insatiable gleam. Arwen knew that under strong light his eyes would appear some species of indigo-violet, but right now they were as black as a smooth Palantir stone, riddled they were with some mysterious glint; and no less dark was his hair, as it fluttered slightly from a gentle incoming breeze. And at the moment, although Erestor said naught, his gaze remained fixed upon the Evenstar, cool, yet blazing, at the same time. Arwen sat up slightly taller. What had she been thinking a few moments before, that a princess, one of the House of Earendil and Elrond, would have to be afraid of some nobody in comparison? Even if the way he now gazed upon her could only fuel her growing suspicion of him. She set her needlework down on her lap and stared back, impassively and as dignified as she could, at him. 

There reigned a lengthy, awkward pause between the two of them, before any of them spoke, melting away the thick silence. "My lady Evenstar," intoned Erestor, and his eyes flashed as he lilted with his harp-like voice. Arwen felt something stir within her and a forced, contemptuous half-smile twisted at her red lips. 

"Erestor," she simply said. 

The elf-lord's dark eyes swayed and lingered across her lithe, poised form, before it fell upon the abandoned handiwork that was backdropped against the cerulean silk of her garment. Daringly, he reached out a hand and fingered the creation briefly, before the look in Arwen's eyes forced him to withdraw.

"You simply get cleverer and cleverer by the day, Princess," Erestor purred, mouth curling into a smile. "I have not seen any of the handmaidens of Galadriel in Lorien weave a more cunning piece from a simple ball of thread." Arwen observed as the hand that had just touched the gray shawl wandered to his face and momentarily grazed his lips.

"I thank you for that assessment," she replied, her wont completely devoid of emotion. Her gray eyes, however, told Erestor otherwise, as she eyed him back almost malevolently. "And pray, what brings you here to converse with me?"

Erestor raised a fine eyebrow and gave a light shrug of the shoulders, making his sleeves rustle as he did so. Arwen cocked an eyebrow. "I was wondering if any company wouldlift your spirits, my Lady. I see that you are quite sad, every day — and I know not of the reason. Is there anything that I can do, to make you happy, Lady Evenstar?" Arwen deduced that her expression had to have lightened some, for Erestor sighed and extended a slender index finger, tucking a stray tress of ebony behind a pale pointed ear. "You know that I would do anything to please you, Princess."

A smile crept back onto Arwen's face at the words, but it was, if possible, even more forced than the last. "Anything to please me?" she echoed, a hint of incredulity playing in her voice.

Erestor drew in breath sharply, seeing the door of Chance open a small increment. "Anything," he whispered back, and he leaned forward a little.

Arwen snorted and fell back into her chair, jarring Erestor out of the fantasy he had fallen into. "Then, my lord, would kindly leave me in peace?" she said vehemently. Arwen then dropped her head and caught it with a hand of hers. "I am tortured, Erestor, and I have been living in this torture for yearsall I can think of is _him_"

The writhing snakes in Erestor's stomach had somehow spontaneously disappeared, leaving a total void in his chest, and his fleeting hope was quenched. And, before he knew it, against his volition, his shoulders were shaking. "Him?" he said faintly, and fell as if his head were swirling.

Arwen gasped, and her cheeks reddened. _Oh, Nienna damn me, how could I have been so stupid?_ she cried at herself. _I gave Estel away!_ But then, peeping up just a tiny bit, she caught the stunned expression on Erestor's face — and that emboldened her slightly. Then her wit flooded back into her again; and she sat straight up and pasted a huge, beaming grin on her face. _Of course_ she wanted the foul elf-lord to know that she was already taken — it would at least discourage him and force him to keep his distance.

"Whyyes!" she mewed back, and she tapped the arms of her chair with her white fingers. "Him. The one whom I have given my heart to."

Erestor still gazed at her, a crazed smirk playing across his trembling lips. "_And who may he__be?"_

Arwen arched an eyebrow. "You know him, Erestor," she said. "Forty years is still a mere span of time to us elves. Estel, my father's adopted son? The heir of Isildur, the chief of the Dunedain, the Elfstone. His name is Aragorn, if you have truly forgot."

A leaden weight fell into Erestor's chest, and remained there. "Aragorn" he breathed, voicing each syllable with marked length and slowness, but to Arwen he had hissed the name. Then he set his jaw and gave the Princess a condescending look. "A man," he spat. "A filthy mortal."

A slight blush crept into Arwen's cheeks — and her silver eyes flared. Flares of anger. "He is not any ordinary mortal, my lord," she replied in a low voice. "The blood of Beren and Elendil runs in his veins. And you have no right to call somebody you hardly are acquainted with by such a derogatory name."

Erestor snarled. "But still he is doomed to die, my Lady, and there shall be no way to reverse that Fate of his," he retorted softly. "Do you truly think he deserves to have the hand of the daughter of Elrond, Lady of Rivendell, she who is far nobler and refined in both lineage and blood than him?" The Evenstar didn't say anything.

"Arwen," Erestor heaved, and the Princess recoiled. He had used her given name, the degenerate, and before she could even brew up a lashing retaliation, he leaned over her, his long black strands falling mere inches in front of her face, and he found both of her limp hands and placed his large ones over them. "If you choose him, he who is mortal and he who shall live only an insignificant span of life, you bind yourself to him. And of that you shall loose your immortality. Do you truly think that such is wise, that such is worthwhile? You, binding yourself to a mortal and becoming a mortal yourself, while you could simply have the love of any elf lord or Prince you wish, and forever live on in bliss?"

The look that Arwen dealt back to him was enough to freeze Erestor's heart in its coldness. "Be I married to one of my kind," she answered slowly, "I shall live on until the end of the world, yes — but I shall never be happy, while the world lasts. And, as long as I marry he who I loveall the bliss of the Ages of this Arda shall be mine. I have already made my own decision."

And Erestor, wise elf-lord, could not find a single statement to deal back to Arwen. At that moment all his rational thought fled from him, and he simply leaned in farther, the grip on her hands tightening, the faint breath from his lips playing on the tip of Arwen's nose — and just as he parted his mouth, and closed his eyes, to administer his passion-racked kiss, he was thrown off with a shocking force that he had not deemed possible for a lady to possess.

Arwen stood up, the shawl tumbling silently off her lap onto the floor. A faint silvery _ping_ resounded as the embroidery needle, the thread and a strung pearl still attached to it, followed it onto the ground. "_Erestor_," said she, and her voice trembled. Blatant fury showed on her fine features; and, without even picking up what she had worked on for so long, she turned tail and swept out of the scene, dress and tresses fluttering behind her. Erestor simply stood, stunned; and right as Arwen disappeared into the adjoining colonnade, he strode forward, meaning to pursue her, but thought against the better of it. Instead he turned around, bent down slowly, and picked up Arwen's embroidery, along with its needle, off the floor. Convulsively, his hands clenched, crushing the work in his balled fists. What had he just heard?

_You know him, Erestor. The heir of Isildur. The chief of the Dunedain, the Elfstone. His name is Aragorn, if you have truly forgotten his name._

He really had truly forgotten. Estel had happened to be a ravishing, strong-minded, wild youth who tramped endlessly about all the Princes and Lords of Rivendell, constantly getting into trouble, neglecting his studies, always precocious and insolent enough to chip in with an extra word or two in between the sentences of others. _That_ Estel? Was _he_ the one who Arwen had fallen in love with? Arwen was playing a cruel joke on him. No, impossible — she, the Evenstar of her people, could not have possibly been foolish enough as to have fallen in love with some dirty mortal with the likes of Estel. And how long did it take for him to win her? Perhaps, what not — a mere few days. Erestor squeezed his eyes shut, and a single tear escaped from the corner of one eye and trekked its way slowly down his face.

That was the way his patience had been repaid. His patience, his quiet yearning, his silent hope, that had sustained him for hundreds of years. He had fallen in love with Arwen Undomiel, the very fist time he had ever called upon Lord Elrond, without so much but a glance at her sublime appearance and her wraith-like body. That had been a beautiful, sun-filled day in Rivendell — an abnormally beautiful day in Rivendell — but even Rivendell's burning glory fell dim and gray in his eyes when Arwen had appeared. Silently, secretly, he had vowed himself to her, devoted himself to her, and given himself to her — taking to no one else, seeing no one else but her, and serving no other lady but her. And she had not even bothered to look back at Erestor, any of the uncountable times he and she had crossed paths upon the trails or within the corridors of the Last Homely House. Frankly, he wasn't even sure at first if she was aware at all of his existence. But Erestor was gifted with more patience than the average soul, and was persistent even for an elf — so he had managed to survive, all those centuries and decades, watching her, quietly wishing for her, hoping against hope that some day, one glorious day, she would finally come into his arms. And while he, the fool, had been blinded by his sheer perseverance, she had been stolen away by someone else, taken away by another, one who had barely known her for days, even. And that cursed one who stole her had been the heir of Isildur — the mortal who had come to live in the valley of the elves by sheer mistake. It was too much for Erestor to take in, all his slow subsisting for the last few hundred years of his life amounting in one moment to absolutely nothing. His knees gave way, and, with a thump, he twisted and collapsed into the chair.

How he hated Estel now. First it had only been some sort of an annoyance, an irritation, towards him, but oh, what he did not know. Now he simply hated the heir of Isildur with all his elven blood. And he delighted, both delighted and feared terribly, what he might have done to him if he ever fell within his reach again. He could strangle the bastard with his own bare hands. Or, strike him, injuring him, blemishing any part of his body he could hit. And best, he could just unsheath his long elven blade, and watch in pure pleasure as the man's face would contort and convulse in unthinkable agony, as he thrust the metal straight through his body. And it was optimum for Estel never to venture again into the Valley of Rivendell, or anywhere within ten leagues of Erestor; for there was nothing stopping him to do exactly what he had imagined he would do. But, then again, Erestor almost wanted him to come up to him. To challenge him. To compete with him. He almost wished that there could be a fair and even round with him, to win Arwen's hand and favor — and he would forever remember Aragorn's stunned face, when he had finally cut his legs from underneath him, defeated him, killed him, and claimed the Princess for his own. That indeed was starting to become a dream of Erestor's that was almost as strong as his hope for Arwen's emotions to spontaneously turn in his favor. He _wanted_ to defeat his rival, in front of all the eyes of the world, as to administer his revenge. And that was what Aragorn deserved, for taking away _his _Princess. _His_ Arwen. 

"You shall not escape so easily, Aragorn, son of Arathorn," Erestor snarled, out loud. "And neither shall you win so easily. So you know who I am? I can make you pay, for the pain and torture you have put upon me — I can make you beg for your end, before I am finished with you." He paused, and cackled in a deranged laugh. "Come to me, Estel," he said. "Come to me, and I shall give you what you deserve, you filthy mortal."

Erestor closed his eyes, breathing heavily, and leaned back some in the chair, hands still toying subconsciously with the shawl. After moments had passed thus, he opened his eyes again, hissed underneath his breath, and forced himself up to his feet. If he was to tarry any longer, he would miss the morning briefing — and indeed that would make Lord Elrond unhappy. And of course, it would simply not do to displease the father of the woman that he desired. Erestor knew that Elrond surely had a bias against the mortal Aragorn — he was still a mortal — and indeed, if it truly came to it, Elrond did have the authority to force Arwen to sever her ties with her paramour. And that was exactly what Erestor was aiming for — to separate the two.

He smoothed down his hair, straightened out his robes a bit more, and discreetly slipped the shawl into his sleeve. What a precious thing it would be to him — another treasure to add to his collection — and even if Arwen herself came to ask it back from him, why, that was the exact thing he wanted. But, suddenly, before he could finish concealing the embroidery and leave the scene, cries echoed throughout the gardens and the adjoining colonnade, and he froze in his tracks. Then, all at once, there was a frantic burst of activity outside, and the shouts became louder.

"Gwaihir!" the elven voices cried. "Gwaihir has come!"

Erestor immediately changed direction and bolted for outside. And, to his amazement, just as he ran out into the gardens, barely fifty yards in front of him, he saw an immense brown eagle, winded and panting. And upon its back clung a gray-clad figure, hair in total disarray, stains and injuries blemishing his sullied appearance.

Gandalf the Grey had been rescued from Isengard. 

End Part One

A/N: I thought that Erestor deserved a bit more attention — poor fellow, he only got his name mentioned once in the book! And - *swishes magic wand at keybord* perhaps I may add in Glorfindel, the other maltreated elf-prince. I was so enraged when they fired him from the FOTR movie. 

Final A/N: I wholeheartedly thank all of you who have read it. I'm leaving it up to you reviewers to decide whether you want this story to go anywhere or not. If you wish so, I shall try to post the next chapter within 4-7 days. For those of you who've enjoyed this, please do read my other LOTR fics, all R-rated and angst/drama — _The Redeemer_, _The Carnival of the Sovereigns_, and _A Tale of Lothlorien Woods_. And for those of you who like Harry Potter as well, I have two more fics, both of the same specifications — _The Evangelist_ and _Expurgation_. Enjoy those, too. That brings my total up to six fics, and as I write at the rate of a chapter (or even two) a day for now, I update all my stories in a round-robin fashion and new chapters shall zoom in every week or two. Until later, Kudos! ~Verok


	2. So You Seek Advice

A Game of Chess, Chapter Two

So You Seek Advice

Rating: PG-13 (I'm still not sure when to up this to an R)

A/N: Thanks to all who have read and reviewed chapter one. And so, as you have requested, here is A Game of Chess, Chapter Two — starringGandalf and Glorfindel! Enjoy!

GreyLadyBast: Apologies, apologies, apologies for the "stilted" first chapter. I was writing that at 1 in the morning, while running as low as heck on inspiration. You could say, it's probably because I was not as excited about getting this fic down on paper as some of the other ones I've written — I love dramas and angst pieces, but I still need a bit more experience in the romance field. Thanks for netting me!

Soledad: I'll try my utmost to make Erestor a bit more — eh — honorable in his actions. That'll be difficult going, as the plot has already been predetermined, but I'll see what room I can make from the character I already drew out for him. But really, though, not all elves would be good elves, don't you think? And even though Erestor is third in command of Imladris or something, that doesn't mean that he _has_ to be a guy with morals attached.

And so, let the madness commence again

A Game of Chess

So You Seek Advice

So Saruman had become a vassal to Sauron. That was the first thing Gandalf had told Erestor when he had run up to Gwaihir; and without second thought he hurtled back indoors, streaking through the maze-like corridors in search of Elrond. This was news, indeed. He didn't know whether it was a good or bad thing that he was hyperventilating — he had developed quite a thorough case of tunnel vision, and right as he turned what seemed like the hundredth corner he smacked full-tilt into a solid iron wall and, his superhuman balance failing to kick in, toppled backwards onto the ground. He looked up, and very nearly choked on the wisp of hair that had fallen into his mouth. The Lord of Imladris himself stared down at him, two black eyes gleaming — both with slight amusement and slight annoyance. His mouth tipped in a strange combination of a smirk and a frown.

"So!" he said, in an imperious voice, and he folded his arms across his broad chest. "Erestor."

"My Lord," Erestor gagged back. His black hair was rampant all around him like fan; and no doubt his previously perfect robes were disheveled. He creaked his head over and saw, with both terror and mortification, that the gray shawl he had stolen protruded some from his sleeve. 

"And what may it be that makes an elf lord normally as stiff and collected as you be so panicked as to have no sense of direction left in his head?" Elrond said. 

Erestor bit his lip, but just as he endeavored to sit up his back gave a cry of protest and he slumped back down. "Mithrandir has arrived," he croaked, "on the back of Gwaihir. And judging by his appearance, he is in need of immediate medical attention." Erestor then tried to raise his head — and nearly hurked out loud again. Arwen was hovering right behind Elrond, half-shielded by his high shoulder; and the moment he made eye contact with her the Evenstar's face twisted into a glare and she turned around, placing her back to him. Yet it probably wasn't _that_ bad, staring at her back, Erestor thought, because only half of it was covered by the sheer fabric of her gown, leaving the other half of soft, inviting skin bare to the eye.

Elrond, oblivious of the brief interaction between the two, was silent for a moment before nodding. "Good," he remarked curtly, and he picked up the hem of his scarlet robes and stepped over Erestor. Only few footsteps sounded before they stopped again; and Elrond turned around.

"Arwen, daughter, what are you doing?"

The Evenstar whipped about, and her cheeks burned red. "Ohsorry, FatherI was just" she waved a hand abstractly behind her. "Looking at the silly goose that was perched on the colonnade a moment ago!"

"And _where_ _is_ the silly goose?" Erestor barged in, before Elrond could open his mouth. Arwen seethed at him.

"Arwen, my love, we are standing in a _closed_ corridor," Elrond said slowly, and Arwen turned from tinged red to a fine shade of magenta. Elrond's eyes then darted down to Erestor, who was still lying stomach-up with limbs sprawled in front of Arwen, and flickered back to his daughter, who was openly glowering now, and a slight suspicion crossed his head. His mouth contorted and pressed together, yet he didn't know whether to glare and rid himself of the ugly sight, or dissolve into fits of laughter.

"Hmph."

Arwen hoisted up her dress as well and was about to follow her father's example when she stopped, bent down and stared at Erestor again, this time wearing a funny expression. The tips of her auburn floes grazed Erestor's chest, and an enticing scent wafted down from her faint breath to him, making him feel woozy.

"What is that thing sticking out from your sleeve, my lord?" Arwen inquired, pointing at the corner of the gray shawl that showed.

Erestor swallowed and mustered a smile. "You dropped your shawl, Princess," he drawled, trying to make his voice sound as smooth as syrup. "It really was a pity to abandon something you've lavished so much work on, so, I took it into my safekeeping until I would have the chance to return it to you."

Arwen's mouth twitched, but she did not bend down to pull the shawl from Erestor's sleeve. "Keep it," she snapped, and with a flying leap she jumped over the sprawled elf-lord and scuttled to her father — whom now registered a look of pure annoyance, tinged with a bit of an unpleasant something else, on his face. Erestor sat up with a groan and twisted around to see the two of them hurry away, the Lord's arm wrapped protectively around the insubstantial waist of his daughter.

"_Mellind_, would you kindly explain that recent conversation of yours to me?" Elrond asked, frowning at Arwen.

The Evenstar shook her head violently. "I would rather you not ask, Father."

"Indeed. Hmph."

Gandalf's condition was not ascertained to be serious — he had a few contusions and concussions here and there, as well as a few open wounds— but nothing life-threatening. His news, however, was definitely serious. On the outside, Elrond had not reacted very strongly to Gandalf's tidings — but everybody, especially his courtiers and advisors, knew that he was indeed terribly weighed down. Now Orthanc had made an alliance with Barad-dûr; and it was only a matter of time before the two of them would mass an army large and strong enough to attempt an assault upon the Western lands. And the One Ring of Power still was not anywhere safe yet — Gandalf reckoned that the party of hobbits that bore it were perhaps already quite a ways into Wilderland, approaching Rivendell fast — but as for now they could only wait for them to arrive. And also, if Saruman were not lying, the Ringwraiths were prowling about the region, perhaps even hot on the trail of the Ring, right at that moment. 

Arwen climbed the last flight of stairs up to the lofty pavilion in which Gandalf's sick room was located. Several elves stood outside, some pacing, some standing still, others muttering in undertone amongst themselves. There was a crack in the double-door that led into the room and Arwen saw a glimpse of her father's scarlet outfit, swishing about, while he carried on a conversation with Mithrandir of which only brief snatches were able to reach their ears. 

"Arwen!" exclaimed a voice, abruptly jarring the thick silence, and the entire throng of quiet elves whipped about immediately and hissed, fingers to lips. Prince Glorfindel cocked a fine black eyebrow and raised both hands in a gesture of acquiescence, and the others fell back and returned to their whispered conversations. Arwen felt a smile pull at her lips and she hurried over to Glorfindel — apart from a few personal handmaidens, court ladies and other princes that sometimes visited Rivendell, he was her closest friend — and one of the few people that could openly call her by her birth name in public. 

"What is going on, Glorfindel?" she asked, tugging at his sleeve.

"Your father is having a conference right now," he said, "but that's all I'm allowed to tell you presently. You know of the precarious situation Rivendell and Middle-Earth stands in."

"Sauron has been getting stronger," Arwen returned, in a hushed voice. "Yes, Glorfindel, I know. And even if I didn't know, I would notice it - Father has always been terribly busy with his meetings and councils these last few months. Everything seemsnot so happy anymore, as if a shadow has come and dampened our spirits."

Glorfindel nodded, and folded his arms across his chest. Then, a split second later, he frowned and cocked his head, a few gold strands fluttering about as he turned. 

"Arwen, what is it with you?"

Arwen gave a jolt.

"I beg your pardon?"

Glorfindel breathed in deeply and raised his chin slightly. "There is something amiss about you, PrincessI can feel it."

Arwen was never sure whether to thank Glorfindel or damn Glorfindel for his unnatural talent with people. That was perhaps exactly why her father had made him second-in-command of Imladris — he was, even for an elf, incredibly sensitive.

"Oh" the Evenstar replied, and trailed off into silence.

"Arwen, if you fail even to give me a straight answer, why then, of course something would be wrong with you," said Glorfindel. 

"It's nothing," Arwen lied.

"Oh, _really_?" Glorfindel lilted, as if he only half-believed her. He gave her shoulder a tap with his hand. "Who or what has been bothering you now?"

Glorfindel was simply beyond an elf now. Arwen, heaving a sigh, gave in and slumped against the marble wall of the corridor. "Oh, Glorfindel, I" she faltered. "I'm not sure whether you're the proper one get informed of this"

"_Who has been bothering you?"_ Glorfindel pressed, a menacing hint developing in his fine voice. He had always been extremely protective of his Evenstar friend — just as a brother would have jealously guarded a sister from any paramours. Arwen bit her lip and still held her silence — she couldn't bring herself about to denounce Erestor. Never before had he shown his malevolent side to anyone else, but her - and before he had, not even she knew that character of his existed — and Glorfindel was sure to disbelieve her claims.

"N —nobody!" she cried.

Glorfindel frowned and took a step toward Arwen.

"Princess, I shall have to accuse you of lying to me," he said quietly. 

Suddenly, Erestor himself emerged at the top of the staircase, and Arwen gave a terrified squeak and dove behind Glorfindel. The latter, confused, whirled about in a flurry of emerald satin, and expertly caught her on an arm. 

"Arwen, what are you doing?" 

Arwen, instead of answering him, paled so dramatically that her face revealed the blue lines of her underlying veins. With surprising force she twirled Glorfindel around and latched on to his shoulders with talon-like hands, refusing to move from behind him. And just as she had finished manhandling him, Erestor approached, wearing a very odd look on his pallid face, and he stopped barely an arm's-length from his superior.

"Glorfindel!" he greeted jovially. "My friend."

"Erestor," replied the latter. He perceived the elf-lord's dark eyes dart from his own blue orbs to his shoulder, and, craning his head over slightly, he saw Arwen's forehead and eyes, protruding out as she huddled herself to his back. A sudden realization crossed his mind, and a momentary sear flickered in his irises, accompanied by a near-inaudible gasp. _Could it be him?_

"And what are you doing, my Lady Evenstar, lurking behind Glorfindel's back?" asked Erestor, lifting a black eyebrow. "Are you trying to — _hide_ — from someone?"

__

All doubt that was left within Glorfindel vanished upon that remark and he reached a hand over his shoulder, which was immediately interlaced with cold, shaking ones. The half-smile had fled his face. Erestor eyed the two and his breathing turned loud and shuddering; and Glorfindel, all propriety gone, stared back at him like an eagle. There reigned an extremely tense pause, as the two elf-lords silently competed with each other, and indeed the scene would have looked comical if it weren't for the stiffness that accompanied it. The other conversations died away and the whole crowd turned, gawking at the three elves that stood both still and hard as three statues. 

Right on cue, the double doors in front of them burst open and a very ruffled-looking Elrond stepped out. Everybody on scene fumbled and bowed as he appeared — that was, everybody except his chief counselor and second-in-command, who were still busily staring at each other.

"Glorfindel!" cried Elrond, his voice resonating around and around the corridor, and the Prince jumped and whirled around.

"My lordmy apologies" he tumbled out.

"Come in," said Elrond, and he waved a hand towards the room.

As Glorfindel came forward, Arwen came also, hovering close behind him.

"And Erestor, you come in also," Elrond commanded, and Arwen instantaneously halted and shrunk back, backing away almost to the edge of the staircase. Everybody on scene stared at Arwen, who fidgeted with her hands, to Erestor, who was trying to pretend he didn't know anything, to a scowling Glorfindel and finally back to Elrond, who seemed completely bemused. 

"Arwen?"

Glorfindel waved an arm at Erestor. "Stay out there," he ordered, not even requesting Elrond's prior permission to overrule his command; and he swept over to Arwen, tugging her into the room.

"Come on, Princess."

Elrond looked no short of totally confounded by the strange behavior of his subjects, but silently let Glorfindel drag a shaking Arwen into the room, before dealing the stunned Erestor an eye and pushing the door shut again.

Inside, Gandalf the Grey lay upon a recliner, mountains of pillows propping his back up and a thin coverlet tossed over his robes. He had a pipe in his mouth and had been blowing smoke rings — of which the entire airspace of the room was now filled. 

"Mithrandir!" Arwen cried, and ran over to Gandalf.

The wizard laughed and scooted up taller. "My dear Arwen!" he replied, laughter in his voice, and he welcomed the Evenstar with open arms. Elrond could not help but smile at the heartwarming sight; but Glorfindel could not have forced one onto his face unless his elven immortality was in the question. Elrond noticed his scowling expression.

"Glorfindel?'

His right-hand elf stared at him in the eye for a while before shaking his head. "I am most definitely not the one to tell you," he simply stated, leaving the Lord of Imladris even more bewildered than ever.

After Gandalf and Arwen had broken from their embrace she, respecting her father and her friend's needs, padded over to the corner and sat cross-legged upon a cushion. The other three resumed upon their conference, talking in undertone, yet Glorfindel continued to be distracted. Throughout the whole length of the conversation Glorfindel had repeatedly glanced back at Arwen with pure concern written on his face, and more than once he had been caught in the act by Elrond - who could only stare Glorfindel back but could not say anything. The Evenstar, however, stared into her lap for the entire duration of their meeting, fiddling with a little silver ring she wore on her little finger. When their discussion was finally closed, Glorfindel immediately meandered back to Arwen and exchanged glances with her. 

"Now, I believe I shall have to call Erestor in," Elrond said.

Arwen and Glorfindel immediately shifted for the door. Gandalf caught their discreet movement out of the corner of his eye, and, perceiving everything in an instant, dealt Elrond a look that transmitted meaning through the air as easily as words could.

"Ermthen, perhaps I should go out and talk with him there," Elrond hastily interposed. Arwen and Glorfindel halted and Gandalf gave them a smirk.

The Lord of Imladris could only wonder at their mysterious conduct, but as his mind was cluttered with more issues than was normal, his impaired intuition did not help him get anywhere closer to his answer. "Hmph," was all he said, and he passed out of the portal.

As soon as the last bit of the scarlet robe train disappeared from the crack of the door, Glorfindel bounded over and shut it. Gandalf raised a thick eyebrow and placed his pipe onto the table next to him.

"So!" he said. "Have we something against the Lord Erestor here?"

Gandalf was indeed wise. Arwen and Glorfindel exchanged half-smiles before either of them spoke.

"If I take my intuition correctly, he has been harassing the Evenstar lately," the elf-prince said, plopping down onto a nearby chair.

"Hmmm!" murmured Gandalf, and he nodded. "That was what it seemed like, as I watched you two."

"Mithrandir," Arwen said despairingly, and, wringing her hands in a very uncharacteristic gesture, she walked across the room and seated herself at the foot of Gandalf's recliner. "He frightens me, that Erestor."

Gandalf gave a chuckle and placed an arm behind his head. "Arwen, my dear, you have more admirers in reality than you actually think," he stated matter-of-factly. "It just seems that Erestor, who's always been quite an ambitious chap, is a bit more_blatant_ in his actions. Indeed, that elf is rather talented, being able to get whatever he's wanted in the past, and with that kind of success record he believes that he can also properly seduce you."

Glorfindel cringed. 

"Gandalf, he follows me everywhere," Arwen continued. "Whenever he gets a chance to talk to me, especially when we two are alone — he jumps upon it. I know Rivendell is a large place, and I always try to shake him off, butnothing has been working!"

"Erestor has always been a master of guile," Glorfindel added in.

Gandalf laughed. "You are not the chief counselor to the Lord of Imladris for nothing," he said. "Of course Erestor is a terribly clever elf. But you, Arwen, are also very intelligent, and indeed, the only reason he can still follow your trail is because you have not been using your wit."

Arwen frowned. "My wit?"

"Your own cunning," Gandalf said. "You wish to avoid Erestor? That is a very simple thing to do. Firstly, there's always your father — as long as you're within fifty yards of him Erestor would not be able to do anything, for the love of his life. And also, you may count on your friend here," and Gandalf gestured over to Glorfindel, who nodded. "He is Erestor's superior, and he can also protect you."

"But what if Father is occupied with business, and cannot accompany me?" pleaded Arwen. "What if Glorfindel cannot be at my side?"

Gandalf raised both eyebrows. "If neither you Father nor Glorfindel is available to you, most certainly Erestor will also be occupied, as the three do business together," he replied. "But if you are really alone, you can always stay in some of the more densely populated areas of this valley — as long as you're within plain sight of others, Erestor will not dare to make any open advances on you, lest he cares not for his reputation anymore. And even if love for his reputation is no means to stop him, why, that will take care of him itself eventually."

Arwen hesitated, then bobbed her head up and down in some sort of nod. "So" she echoed, "I shall just have to be surrounded by others."

"Exactly."

"But, Gandalf," Arwen sighed, "you know I do not like large crowds. I am introverted, Mithrandir, and solitude is the only way to keep me pacified and collected."

Gandalf paused and smiled at the elf lady. "Then you shall just have to make a sacrifice," he said gently. "If you truly fear Erestor, perhaps you shall resort to many things so as to be able to shake him offeh?"

"And what if he still tries to give me unwelcome advances in front of people?"

Glorfindel raised his eyebrows and his clear voice echoed in an incredulous laugh.

Mithrandir seemed highly amused. "My dear Evenstar," he quipped, "if _that _truly happens, then that shall be the best thing that _could_ happen for you. Why, your father would have him skinned and catapulted out over the Ford of Bruinen — and even if Elrond doesn't resort to such drastic punishments, then, Erestor's reputation would be in such a deplorable condition that he would have difficulty showing his nose without people jeering at him in Imladris."

"Then, perhaps, I would probably wish him to do just that," Arwen muttered. 

At that exact moment, Elrond came in once again and motioned for Glorfindel to come out. Arwen and Gandalf halted in their talk, watching the two of them exchange whispers, and when Glorfindel was finally released, he was wearing a dejected expression on his face.

"Arwen" he said slowly, "I think I would have to leave Imladris for a bit."

Both Gandalf and the Evenstar started.

"No, Glorfindel, you can't!" Arwen cried, and she ran over to him and seized his sleeve. "How am I to keep my distance from Erestor, if I do not have you?"

"I am sorry," Glorfindel sighed, and he drooped his majestic head. "Elrond has sent me on an errand — a mission, more like. But you have heard Gandalf," he said, and he nudged his chin in the wizard's direction. "His advice never goes wrong."

"If you are so terribly frightened that you cannot even venture out," Gandalf said, "you can always spend some time here with me. I do not think Erestor would want to try and seduce you right under a Maiar's nose."

"See?" Glorfindel said cheerfully. "Just listen to Mithrandir. He has much experience, you know."

"When shall you leave?" Arwen asked.

"Right now," said the elf prince, and he stopped smiling. "I am afraid I have to comply with your father's request."

"Then —"Arwen barged in, "could Iaccompany you to the stables?"

Glorfindel gave a grin. "Cling to me until the end, eh, Princess?" he jested. "Of course."

In barely half an hour Glorfindel had saddled his horse and placed all the necessary packs upon its back — it seemed as if he were setting out to receive a party, and escort them back to Imladris. He and Arwen continued chatting, walking side by side, until they had reached the eastern bank of the Ford of Bruinen. 

"But look on the bright side of everything, Arwen," he said, putting a finger under the Evenstar's chin. "I'm going out to fetch Aragorn for you."

She gave a sharp intake of breath, and her eyes flashed. "Aragorn!" she cried. "Are you really going out in search of him?"

"Yes — and his hobbit entourage," Glorfindel replied. "It will not take me more than a few days, if all goes well. Gandalf reckons they're right around our vicinity. Just think, Princess — at the end of the week you shall have your Estel back."

Arwen beamed — Glorfindel was truly a best friend to her. "But be careful out there, _mellon_," she said, and her smile slowly faded. "There are Black Riders out there, and they will want your blood. Pray, be prudent."

"Asfaloth will give them a good racing, if it ever comes to it," Glorfindel reassured, and he patted the neck of the magnificent white animal. "I shall find them and return immediately to Imladris. And I promise, I will be quick."

Arwen gave him a last wistful smile in farewell, and the elf prince mounted his steed. "Namarië, _mellind_!" she cried, and waved a hand.

"Namarië," Glorfindel returned, and, picking up the jeweled bridle, he nudged his steed and swerved around, galloping into the cold waters of the Ford. 

"_Noro lim, Asfaloth_!"

End Part Two

Sindarin Translations:

Mellon = "dear friend"

Mellind = "dear heart"

Namarië = "farewell"

Noro lim = "ride fast and swift"

A/N: It's interesting to see that Gandalf and Arwen have had no whatsoever interaction at all in fics — so I thought, if Elrond and Gandalf were such good friends, why couldn't Arwen look upon Gandalf as a godfather, or an uncle — and Gandalf see Arwen as a favorite little niece? Just thinking

Final A/N: I hope this installment was better than the last. I suppose, after the first chapter was done, and *your* reviews came in, I got a burst of inspiration (again, thanks reviewers — you basically saved the story). I promise; a few more chapters and Aragorn'll show up. And also, if you wish to review, I would like to ask a choice of you — whether you want the characters of the (complete) Fellowship to participate strongly in the plot, or just be a bunch of extras walking around in the background. Either way, my pre-planned plotline does allow a few more people to get big parts (would ya like to see Legolas acting as a messenger boy? Or Boromir as a spy agent? Or Merry and Pippin as intentional Erestor hazards?). And soon, my readers, you shall start seeing some backstabbing 

Later, and still love you all! Kudos! ~ Verok


	3. Rules of the Board

A Game of Chess: Chapter Three

The Rules of the Board

Rating: PG-13

A/N: Again, thanks reviewers! Here comes Part Three! (and our first member of the Fellowship makes his story debut.)

Let the madness commence once more

A Game of Chess

The Rules of the Board

Arwen thought drearily that she could not have possibly been in a better fix, as she slowly trudged her way back to the Palace of Imladris, step by step. On the way, passerbys bowed down respectfully before her; yet, she was in such a delusional mood that she failed even to justify them back with a mere nod. And it was perhaps lucky that she was Undomiel, the Evenstar of her people, and was dubbed "Luthien Tinuviel's reincarnation", for her subjects simply figured that she felt them unworthy of a reply — which they felt perfectly fine with, for they had gotten used to the notion that Arwen was some sort of goddess, and not just a mere elf lady.

Glorfindel was gone, then — and the elf prince was perhaps the only person she knew in Imladris that she felt completely natural with. Of course, she knew several other good damsels that she considered great friends, and yet, there was no doing for them to protect her from somebody with the likes of Erestor — if he ran into them in the corridors, and started flirting with her, they would only stand by and giggle as they watched the soap opera unfold. And, her father — well, her father was terribly busy, and agitated as well, and Arwen was a considerate-enough being to let him go in peace without having to tow around a whimpering princess that clung to the hem of his robes by the hour. And of courseventuring out in public, and braving the open stares of the many residents of Rivendell, was the last option she would ever consider.

So, then, she had only one choice left. She would have to stay, indoors, with Gandalf the Grey.

And she liked that choice.

"So he has left?" asked the wizard, when the door to his boudoir inched open gingerly. "Come in, come in, you paranoid little daisy! I am not hiding a malevolent elf-lord under my bedcovers!"

The door's gap widened a bit more, and Arwen sidled in quickly, before shutting it. "Everybody has gone, haven't they?" she remarked, gesturing at the portal. The corridor outside had been empty when she had come in.

Gandalf puffed on his pipe, and lowered an eyebrow. "You have no idea how long you took, Princess, going to the Ford of Bruinen and back," he replied. "Theoretically, a good walker like your father can do a round trip in forty minutes, and you spent an hour and a half out there, in the sun!"

Arwen was taken back. "I have?"

"And the state of your complexion proves it."

The Evenstar lifted up a hand and touched it to her face — which was flushed beet red and quite warm. Although she had not noticed it sooner, rivulets of sweat were pouring from the crown of her head, and her clothes were quite damp. And right then, in the distance, they heard the clock-tower of Imladris strike a half-hour to midday. 

"OhI am sorry," she apologized, and wiped away the moistness on her temples. "I suppose I have many things weighing on my mind."

Gandalf frowned heavily and wagged a finger at her. "Arwen, the worst possible thing for you is that you take this entire Erestor affair into heart," he lectured fiercely. "If you become angered by his conduct, or nettled, or simply so disoriented you cannot feel the difference between heat and cold, well then, your stalker will think that he had won the first part of his game. For any strong reaction of yours on his behalf will denote that you have been thinking of him, and whether your thoughts of him are ill-willed or else, the fact that he has already properly forced himself onto you cannot be denied. If you simply ignore him, Lady, and pretend that he was either invisible, or never even existed, well — that would be the best way to frustrate his plans. Do you understand me?"

Arwen went even redder on hearing Mithrandir's words, and lowered her head in an attitude of agreement. 

"Thank you, Gandalfand I will try to keep your words in mind."

The wizard looked at her intently, before he stopped frowning and smiled. "And, you must also promise me, to not spend your time out in the sun like that anymore. I believe that you have quite a desirable complexion amongst all ladies, elven, human or other they may be, and people would not like to see you ruin it." 

The Evenstar bowed even lower.

"And don't just wipe the sweat off your face," scoffed the wizard, and he rummaged around in his robe-pocket and tossed out a handkerchief to Arwen. "Seep that in some fountain-water and wash yourself, properly. And besides, what has happened to your own handkerchief? Every lady must have one of her own."

"Erestor stole mine," muttered Arwen.

"Indeed!" cried the wizard, and he laughed. "I think I had underestimated that fox, all the years I have known him." He then sighed. "To me as a strategist, you know, it is much easier to plan a siege-battle than to try and find a way to steal something as personal as a handkerchief off a lady!"

"Well, to tell the truth, he did not perform an honest-to-Ilúvatar theft," Arwen admitted, as she plunged the handkerchief into the icy bubbling water of a little indoor spring in the corner of the chamber. 

Gandalf's eyes twinkled. "How so?" he asked

"It was afternoon, and he must have gone out and run laps around the Palace on purpose — and he looked so ghastly as he walked inside, I simply chucked mine at his nose and told him about his nerve for showing such a face in front of a Princess. Of course" she trailed off, and attempted a hollow laugh, "I didn't ask for it back. I do not want anything that had gotten — " she paused, and struggled to locate the right word — 

"Gotten what?" The gleam in Gandalf's eyes had gotten diabolic. "_Contaminated_?"

"Well" Arwen hesitated. "Yes! _Contaminated_ — by that _monster_." She lifted the sodden handkerchief out and flung it onto her face, rubbing vigorously. 

Gandalf sighed. "But we must find some way to occupy your mind, Princess," he said. "I would hate to see you waste away under that elf's influence —"

"I am not _wasting away_," retorted Arwen, as she walked over and sat on a chair next to Gandalf's recliner.

"Oh, but you _will_ waste away," Gandalf objected, in a very final tone. "Female elves have not the strength, nor the resilience, of women — and I have seen quite a few women crumple very quickly under this sort of pressure. So it would be better, Princess, to listen to my advice first, see how that carries through, then make your own assumptions about yourself."

Arwen gave a defeated smile.

"Ah, yes! Would you like to start off by talking?"

The smile dropped off. 

"I don't know what to talk about."

"Oh, you can just tell me what has been happening in Imladris lately. I have a certain fondness for tidings, and I haven't been here for quite a while, you know."

A heavy sigh permeated the still air, and Arwen tapped a hand dejectedly on the arm of her chair, watching the liberal fabric of her sleeve rustle with her movements. "All the days here are the same," she answered, wistfully. "There is no glitter, or excitement, or prospect of a dynamic timeyou know, Mithrandir, the sun rises, and still sets, every single day — without fail."

Gandalf settled back on his mountain of pillows. "But there is a slow, glowing sort of beauty that resides here, and cannot be found anywhere else," he observed. "You must trust me, Arwen, you would not find it fun to try and ride across Eriador with nothing but a horse and saddle under you, and a light pack — and it is doubly worse to stay in a large city of Men, like Minas Tirith or Edoras, for the novelty of living in such large and lively congestions fades away quickly."

Arwen pounded on the chair. "That is exactly what I want!" she cried, quite loudly for a lady; and Gandalf halted in his speech. "But" her voice lowered, and she swallowed. "Father doesn't let me out of the house."

The wizards eye's held only sadness, as he contemplated the Evenstar. "And I think your father has good reason," he said softly, and he reached out a gnarled hand and patted her knee, in a gesture of sympathy. "He loves you so muchtoo much for his own good, I would say."

Arwen looked up at Gandalf. "You knew that I would eventually leave him?"

Gandalf shut his eyes, briefly, before opening them up again. 

"I have foreseen that."

The air was thick with the silence that followed, and Arwen had stopped tapping her chair, resorting to fumbling with the stitches on the hem of her sleeve. It was Gandalf who finally ended the quiet. 

"Well, then, if you do not want to talk, what else may we do to while away the time?"

Arwen's look brightened considerably. "We could" she began, and her eyes trailed slowly around the room. 

She leapt up and seized a piece of spare parchment that lay on a tabletop. "We could fold little sailing boats and set them onto the fountain!"

Mithrandir's laugh echoed loud around and around the chamber, and Arwen could not help but chime in, at the silliness of the situation. 

"Arwen, dear, you really have not ever grown up, have you? Let me tell you this," said the wizard, and he sat up and leaned towards Arwen, "if you truly wish to float boats, we might as well do it with proper wooden models, sails and all, in a bigger body of waterImladris has a fairly large concentration of lakes, I believe? But what would you think, really, if one of your subjects caught you doing something like that? Indeed."

"Well!" The Evenstar shrugged. "Some childhood pastimes simply live on with you, even past your coming of age!" She then lowered her voice, and bent down mysteriously. "My father still has a fondness for board games, you know."

Gandalf's eyes widened. "Board games!" he cried. "Of course adults still play board games. There are some who do such things as a purpose in life — and some of those games are _only_ for adults. Too complicated for children to understand, mind you."

Arwen tipped her mouth in a frown. 

"Like, which ones?"

Gandalf pursed his lips. "_Chess_," he said, impressively, and nodded his head. 

Arwen put two fingers on her chin. "Chess" she said, and trailed off.

"Do not tell me you haven't heard of that game!"

"Of course I know what chess is!" snapped Arwen. "My brothers taught me how to play that game, a few centuries ago, but our father caught us right in the middle of our first learning session, and he confiscated our board and our pieces."

Gandalf raised both eyebrows. "Why?"

"Father says such games are only for young males, or for his own type," Arwen replied, shrugging again. "To him, it's quite an inappropriate form of pastime, for a female to play out battles with wooden carvings on a checkered slab."

The wizard uttered a sound of distaste and shook his bearded head vigorously. "Your father needs a good earful from somebody!" he said vehemently. "Why can't young ladies play chess? After all, it is only a gamenot the real thing."

Arwen sighed. "Perhaps, it reminds him so much of the real thing that he doesn't want it taking over me. I do know that it took over him"

"Indeed, battles are not pretty things," Gandalf said. "But a game of chess — " and at that he waved his arms — "is a gorgeous thing. It involves both the art of precision, timing, and of course — " he smirked — "merciless guile."

The Evenstar shuddered.

"That reminds me ofYou-Know-Who," she intoned, fumbling at the air with her hands.

"There is no single elf-lord that does not respect that game," Gandalf spoke, matter-of-factly — implying Erestor. "For, to be frank, the first qualification for any powerful monarch or sovereign is that he know how to properly wage a war. For war is a very respected art in itself, you know, and a game of chess is the only safe way to rehearse a war, yet keep it in scale —"

"But my father isn't a tremendously powerfulmonarch, as you've said," objected Arwen. 

"Yet he was the herald to Lord Gil-Galad," recounted Gandalf, "and he fought a major role in the Last Alliance of Elves and Men. And that — " he said, "is what I would call the ultimatum of wartheir struggle against the black and foul powers of Mordor."

"Well then!" said Arwen. "But you are getting off our subject, Mithrandirwe were talking about chess, were we not?"

"Yes!" replied Gandalf. "And would you like for me to teach you a few hands?"

Arwen frowned, then looked all about her. 

"We don't have a board, Mithrandir."

"Oh, we do," countered the wizard, and he pointed across the room to a square table with grids drawn onto it. A sandal-wood box sat on top of the chessboard, containing the pieces. 

"Care for a round?"

Arwen grinned. "Certainly."

It was the most thrilling thing she had ever done, excepting fencing — and it was certainly much better than embroidery. And it was especially thrilling, too, when she would reach clean across the board, and send her knight romping and sautéing over and around the battlefield — and she could not deny the rush of utter pride, when she would use one of her pieces to demolish a black legionnaire of Gandalf's. But then again, after each time she had her moment of reckless adrenaline or pride, Gandalf would always send his own troops into a killing spree, taking twice as many pieces as Arwen had taken; and the very first game the Evenstar played, she lost.

"But frankly, dear, I wasn't expecting you to defeat me," the wizard remarked, after Arwen had surrendered herself and put her king facedown onto the board. "If you did, you could fire Erestor and become your father's counselor-in-chief yourself. But, not to talk of defeat - do you like this game?"

"Oh, I love it," said Arwen, grinning exceptionally wide. "And I don't care if I lose, I love it all the same. Can we play again?"

Gandalf cocked his brow. "Why, have I unknowingly addicted somebody to this? But —" he laughed. "It is for the better, for it develops the mind far better than yourcrocheting and embroidering"

"Handiwork," Arwen corrected. "As a lady, I'm expected to do it."

"Pshaw!" scoffed Gandalf. "You're going to be a revolutionist, Arwen. Do not adhere to these degrading stereotypesI am going to make you a gamemaster."

They had barely succeeded in resetting the pieces when the door handle turned, quite loudly and forcefully, and the portal itself swung open. Arwen jumped and blanched as if by magic; Gandalf, however, only leaned over in his chair, somewhat unconcerned to get a glimpse of who had walked in on them. It was another elf; dark-haired, just like Erestor was — only his face appeared slightly different, and he was the slightest bit shorter and gaunter in stature.

"What brings you here, Lindir?" mused the wizard.

"Mithrandir," Lindir greeted respectfully, and bowed in his direction. He turned some, and spotted Arwen. "Lady Evenstar," he intoned, and also bowed. Twenty feet away, Arwen gasped in relief.

"I have simply come in search of you two," said Lindir. "Luncheon hour has arrived."

Arwen stood up, and waved her hands furiously. 

"I_not_ going out there, my Lord."

Lindir looked absolutely confounded at Arwen's behavior. 

"The Lady Evenstar is currentlyin the middle of an emotional crisis," Gandalf piped up. "Avery personalcrisis."

If she were not so distressed, Arwen would have disintegrated into fits of laughter upon seeing the look of pure loss on Lindir's normally all-knowing face. 

"Wellalright, then," Lindir said slowly, his blue-eyed gaze moving from one person to the other. "I shall relay your wishes to Lord Elrondbut —" he stopped. "My Lady, Mithrandir, it is not good for one's health to evade meals."

"I am not hungry," Arwen declared obstinately. "This has taken away my hunger" and she jabbed a finger at the chessboard, and its ranks of assembled pieces. 

Lindir's confused face turned into a hybrid expression of incredulity and amusement. "Chess?" he lilted. "You're playing chess, my Lady?"

Arwen beamed at him. "And I won't give a leaf off a tree for anything Father says about that," she proclaimed. "If he has objections to me using this for a pastime, he can simplytalk to Gandalf. You can knock reason into him, can't you, Mithrandir?"

The wizard was slightly startled, but he managed to make his head nod. "Uhyes, yes! Of course."

Suddenly, to both the Evenstar and the Maiar's bemusement, Lindir gave a rather mischievous grin. "So you like that game!" he deduced.

"Wellcertainly, you know, Lindir!" answered Arwen.

The elf-lord raised an eyebrow. "I have a secret addiction to it, too," he confided. "And, as the result of my addiction, I have procured, for myself, something that may be of amusement to you," he said, and waved a hand at the ajar door. "Would you like to see?"

Arwen bit her lip and sat back down into her chair.

"I told you, I'm not going out."

And this time, Lindir stopped smiling.

"Would it be too much of you, Princess, for me to inquire after anything that can possibly be disorienting you?"

Right on cue, Gandalf trained his eyes on Lindir's, and shook his head meaningfully. 

"Lindir, are you going to see Erestor, by any chance?"

Lindir was the most baffled he had ever been, but, without the superelven insight of Glorfindel or Gandalf, the answer did not immediately dawn upon him. He could only stutter and bubble, incoherently, before it hit him that Gandalf had asked him a question.

"Well, ermunless we meet by accident, he and I do not purposely seek each other after we have spoken at the morning council," he fumbled out in answer, truthfully — though in mind the scene in front of him was all but without a truth, or a reason. Were they simply improvising a drama, and using him as the jester? 

Gandalf cocked his head at Arwen. "Well then, Princess!" he said. "There's your reassurance. Nothing's going to happen to you, I promise."

Arwen let out a deep breath, and nodded, once. 

"Good." And without an extra word, she tossed her head back, making her hair fly, as if in indifference to the strange way she had acted earlier, and swayed out of the room.

And it only served to make Lindir beyond utterly stumped.

"What is it?" Arwen wheedled impatiently. "Oh, come on, Lindir, tell me, for the love of Varda! Are you trying to make me walk across Imladris? And Gandalf said for me to avoid the sun!"

"Patience, Princess!" retorted Lindir. "You shall see itit's right around the corner here"

And, with that, the two passed through a walkway bordered by thick groves of vines and trees, past a stone archway — and they came upon Lindir's secret. A vast square courtyard, a hundred meters on each side, set with exactly sixty-four black and white stone checkers, runes etched out in gold at the sides — and, upon the giant board, were poised sculptures, wondrously carved, that towered above the elves' heads, four times their height. It was a gigantic chess board, complete with its pieces.

"Oh" Arwen could only stutter, jaw hanging freely down. "Wow."

She turned to Lindir.

"Does anybody else know of this?"

"Besides you, wellI don't think so."

"And how did you "procure" this?" 

Lindir gave an impish smile. "I have my connections," he said mysteriously. "The stone for the board came all the way from a quarry in Dale — and as for the pieces, they are hewn from whole boulders that have been raised from the riverbed of the Great Anduin . It was quite a pain to make this thing, a hoard of gold and jewels involvedbut, of course, an elf lord always gets what he wants in the end."

"And how long did it take you, to assemble it?"

Lindir shrugged. "250 years, I suppose — I don't exactly remember."

The Evenstar walked over to the very edge of the board, which was protected by a wide moat of water; but just as she was about to leap the thing Lindir ran over and seized her arm. 

"Don't set foot on the chess board, whatever you do," he warned, shaking his hand.

Arwen was perplexed. "And why?"

Lindir frowned. "The pieces will mistake you for one of their own, and one of them will walk off the board to let you take its place, and play out the game."

Pause.

_"What?"_

"It ties in with how you _use_ this board," Lindir lectured, nodding at the Evenstar's bemused face. "How did you think I would be able to make use of it, at all, if I had to move my pieces myself? Watch and learn, my Lady."

He took a deep breath.

"You there!" he cried, pointing his finger at one of the white marble dragons. "_Alda, úre_!"

With a loud, grating rumble, the dragon inched forward two squares. 

Almost immediately, a black marble basilisk, from clean across the board, advanced two squares as well. Arwen was amazed. 

"This thing will listen to your orders?" she asked, eyes wide.

Lindir smirked. "They are intelligent," he said, and, with three claps of his hands, the dragon and the basilisk automatically retreated, resetting the board.

"Do you use this thing, often?"

"Yes!" cried Lindir. "Of course. I would not spend trunks of gold just for a fancy showpiece! I use this to plan battles — and, often, I would stop the game, and leave the pieces frozen, and come back to resume it later. And sometimes, I just come here and play it for fun."

Arwen's eyes held an almost malicious glint. "And what happens when a piece takes another piece?' she asked.

Lindir paled. "Oh" he said, absentmindedly, "they simply tear each other apart, into rubble."

Arwen lowered an eyebrow. "And you get a new set of pieces after every game?"

"Varda, no!" Lindir squawked. "If that was the case, I'd be broke. No, the pieces will rebuild themselves when they reset."

"Indeed," Arwen said slowly, as if she refused to believe Lindir. "But if they are truly magical, one of them would probably cost the same as all of the replacements you might have to buy for it!"

Lindir sighed. "Yes, yesI know"

Arwen perked up. "Can I come down here and use it, when I feel like it?"

Lindir looked up at Arwen and studied her, long and hard, before he nodded. "Very well, then," he approved. "Come here at your whim — most of the time I'm too busy to enjoy it. But just remember, Princess, don't reveal this place to anybody else." He leaned forward. "It's our little secret, isn't it?"

Arwen smiled. "Our little secret."

Half an hour later the two were heading back to Gandalf's pavilion, chatting happily about nothing in particular, when they heard the oncoming sound of multitudinous hoof-falls. Looking up, they saw, on the main pathway ahead, an entourage of blond elves, clad in silver and green dashed with the flash of jewels, sitting tall upon white steeds. Some of the elves had weapons slung behind their backs — and they were most definitely not some party of Rivendell, returning after a hunting excursion.

Arwen squinted at the head rider of their group; and, suddenly, recognition blossomed on her face, and her eyes brightened. Before Lindir could catch her, this time, she had scooped up her dress and run out of their shady colonnade walk into the full sun, sleeves fluttering happily. 

"Ai! Ai!" she cried. "LEGOLAS!!" 

The Crown Prince of Greenwood dismounted his steed with a flying leap and rushed over to the running lady, robes swirling. "Arwen!" he cried, and the two embraced.

"It really is you, Legolas, _mellon_!" gasped Arwen. "How long has it been — sixty years?"

"Sixty years," Legolas echoed, and he took both of her hands in his gorgeous white ones and spread out her arms, wide. "And you just keep on getting prettier and prettier, Princess."

Arwen beamed. "No, not really — I just haven't changed," she objected. "You've grown, though," she said, and she patted the crown of Legolas's head. "You're almost as tall as Father now!"

"My own father says I'll probably surpass Lord Elrond," the Prince remarked, as he tossed the bridle to one of his squires. "And speaking of Elrond, how is he?"

Arwen eyed Legolas. "Busy," she simply said, and the two walked side-by-side to the colonnade pathway, where Lindir stood watching them.

"And how do you fare, young Greenleaf?" quipped the elf-lord.

"Capital," Legolas responded quickly, stepping into the shade. "Yourself?"

"Not too terrible."

Legolas nodded — before an awkward expression creeped onto his face.

"UhArwen?" he asked.

"Mmmm?"

"Do you have anything to eat? I am sort of on theside."

Arwen stopped dead in her tracks, frozen. _The luncheon. Would Erestor be there?_

_Ohbut Legolas Greenleaf or Glorfindel, it won't make a difference. Anyway, he does have a bow and arrow with him, and probably a wealth of knives concealed in his robe pockets_

"My Lady, his Highness has asked you a question," piped Lindir.

Arwen snapped out of her trance. "Oh!" she swerved around to Legolas. "Yes, we do! We have a nice luncheon that's partly underway, right now. Care to join?"

Legolas grinned, and stuck out his arm. "Care to join? I'm starving proper."

Arwen grinned back and threaded her arm into his. "You follow us too, Lindir!" she commanded, quite sharply, glancing over her shoulder as she and the Prince began pacing again.

Lindir snorted. "And I am _also_ starving proper, mind you."

Arwen turned up her lip, and stared unconcernedly at the passing flowers, as her escort tugged her on. 

__

Perhaps life isn't that bad, after all

End Part Three

A/N: On the concept of labeling chessboard squares, you would not expect the elves to use our Phoenician Alphabet, would you? They have their own Tengwar and Angerthas lettering systems

A/N: If anybody knows what ranking Lindir stands at, in Imladris, or what title he has, please send it in when you review! I shall be eternally indebted to those that answer me.

Final A/N: Boromir and Gimli will come shortly after this chapter. And as for Aragorn and the hobbitsmaybe a chapter after they come. I'm modifying this story to make it look like a long-drawn chess match, and each successive chapter recounts the particular move of one piece — or, indeed, one character— and the giant chessboard of Lindir will become the master-board, on which the story-plot is basically drawn out. The notion of a giant chess board which acts by voice-activation is derived from Harry Potter, but I do get some interesting results, when I incorporate some of that book's magic concepts into LOTR. 

Next chapter up soon! And review, review, review on, my readers~ Verok


	4. An Unintentional Stroke of a Genius

A Game of Chess: Chapter Four

An Unintentional Stroke of a Genius

A/N: Again, thank you all for you reviews. Sorry if this chapter came late; I have quite a schedule to juggle and am inflicted with a severe case of writer's block. No inspiration seems to be able to come during the days we have evil school.

And nowlet's roll.

A Game of Chess

An Unintentional Stroke of a Genius

The flower-strewn courtyard was swarming with elves — the regulars and residents of Rivendell, the usual flocks of serving-lads and cupbearers, minstrels plucking their harps and blowing through their little reeds — and even — as in the case of Legolas and his entourage, the few guests from faraway settlings that had ridden here. And of course, there was always the high end of the social ladder — the lords, the wealthy, and the politicians — milling about in a faraway corner, muttering in low voices amongst themselves.

Arwen practically hid behind Legolas's back, hands grasping his arm, as the two of them advanced into the crowd, no doubt laden with the constant assumption that the elf-price could somehow simply step and run into Erestor, any moment. Lindir, who walked only a few paces behind her - still in the dark of things — glanced around like a perplexed thing with blank eyes at the entire scene. But, however, he had gotten some faint notion that Arwen wished for him to act as some sort of rearguard — and so, he could only comply. 

"Arwen," hissed Legolas, as the three-pack slowly inched forward. "You're starting to cut off my circulation."

"Oh — I am?" came the sheepish reply. The hands loosened slightly, but still did not withdraw.

"Much better."

"Not a problem."

Suddenly, somebody grabbed Lindir from behind, whirling him around. The elf-lord let out a _hurk_ and cantered about, hair flying. 

"What?!" cried Lindir. Arwen and Legolas ground to an abrupt halt and whipped around as well.

"Mae govannen, mellon!" greeted the fair-haired elf in a jaunty voice. "Where have you been, Lindir?"

"Lower your voice, Saephil," whispered Lindir, putting a finger to his lips. "It does not do to draw attention to yourself in such a gathering."

"I've been looking for you, Lindir," responded the younger elf. "For the entire morning. I couldn't find you — "

"I'd be suitably impressed if you were able to find anything in this Eru-forsaken maze," muttered Legolas under his breath.

"I was up to business," Lindir replied curtly, in answer. "What is it that you want, another song from me? For your knowledge, my dear Saephil, I've had a bit of trouble composing my commissions recently. Music and words have left my head."

He poked himself in the temple to make his point.

"Butyou are still certainly able to present one of your older pieces?" wheedled Saephil. "I absolutely adored your latest one — what was it called?"

"'A Ballad to the Mallorn'," snapped Lindir.

"Right you are," said Saephil in a scat, and he gestured behind him. Only then did Lindir realize that there already was an ensemble of 50-some musicians, clutching flutes and lyres, all eagerly waiting for him to direct them. "Would you please be so kind as to present us with one of yournumbers?"

Lindir snorted and put his hands behind his back. "Even if I sing with a voice like Luthien Tinuviel's, this crowd is not going to hear anything until they have all eaten."

"NoI am afraid you make stereotypical assumptions about us all," drawled a voice suddenly, from Saephil's right. Erestor stood there, wearing an almost smug look on his pale face, one long-nailed finger absentmindedly twirling one of his dangling black wisps. "_I_ shall be listening."

Arwen stumbled and almost attempted to dive under Legolas's long gray robes. Since Legolas only slightly shorter than Glorfindel, his back made an excellent hiding place — and she manhandled the Prince with her hands to make him spread out his arms, like wings, camouflaging her.

"Arwen, what are you — " huffed Legolas, eyes wide.  
"Shut up!' Arwen whispered furiously — but Erestor had exceptional ears. 

"My dear princess, why is it that you always have to hide from me?" he cajoled in an almost babyish voice, stepping a bit closer to Legolas. His steely violet eyes swept Thranduil's son, up and down his entire tall length — and they bore some sort of resentment.

"Legolas Greenleaf," he said softly, and a corner of his mouth twitched. "We meet - again. Come all the way from Mirkwood, eh?"

"Greenwood," responded Legolas, his tone quickly developing a stilted hue which had been absent when he conversed with either Arwen or Lindir. It was not known that Prince Legolas had liked the Lord Erestor very much at all. 

Erestor made a sound and smiled, but with the lowering of the eyebrows it seemed a glare, almost. "And what are you here for, may I ask?" he said. "What brings you to — ah — intrude upon our peaceful lives in Imladris?"

Lindir's lips curled into a snarl. Arwen felt an acute heat prick at her chest, but being a lady with considerable stance and training she forced the feeling to be surpressed. 

Legolas, still the calmest of the three, mustered a chilling grin back in some sort of retaliation. "I bear a message," he said, "from my father, the King Thranduil. And as the son of a ruler, one of royalty and of higher class, I would very much appreciate it if my host citizens would pay me more respect."

Saephil grinned.

Erestor's sadistic smile vanished off his angled face, and immediately was replaced by a genuine look of loathing. "I am not a mere _citizen_," he corrected, voice bubbling with some strong emotion.

The Prince of Greenwood pursed his lips and lifted his head high. "Then, pray not dub me an intruder'." 

"Oh?" lilted Erestor. "But that is, I am afraid, exactly what you are."

Lindir took a step forward, a clawed hand raised up, but Legolas shot an arm out, barring him. "If it be that we cannot do civil exchanges, I think it best that we do not converse," he intoned, wont quiet with dead ethereal calm. It, however, was so well said that it sounded even better and more insulting than a barked epithet and a hard backhand across the face. Erestor, now totally spiffed, set his jaw tight and drew himself up to his full height; and Legolas also glared back with his bright blue eyes, teeth gritted, all of his limbs tense as if he were readying to do combat.

"Young Son of Thranduil!" butted in yet another voice — and, as if by magic, the entire pack — Legolas, Lindir, Arwen behind them, Saephil (who was cowering back in a corner), Erestor and the entire pack of robed musicians, scattered away like confetti thrown to the wind. Elrond approached upon them all, eyeing Legolas.

"I have not seen even your shadow for quite a few years, now," he greeted serenely, sweeping forth with long strides. "Are things going well over in Mirkwood?"

"You cannot exactly saywell," said Legolas, gingerly. "The news I bring may not please you."

Elrond's mien darkened.

"Is it of the growingshadow?"

"Aye, my lord."

"Then, let us not touch upon the subject. This is a feast we stand at, not a solemn council. We cannot attempt to spoil our present lighthearted mood, now, can we?"

Arwen walked up from behind Legolas, pushed her hair back with one hand, and then folded her arms across her chest.

"Lighthearted mood, Father, indeed. Hmph."

Elrond's eyes grew as big as saucers, and his jaw opened up, showing his tongue and two rows of white teeth.

"Arwen Undomiel," he proclaimed, hands dangling at his sides. "Throughout all these many long centuries, I have not even thought that somebody wouldto make an imitation of my speech."

Legolas let out a sharp snort of laughter that even Saephil did not mistake for a cry of indignation. The Lord of Imladris pirouetted towards the Prince, glaring.

"What say you, lad?" he cried.

"Noquite childish and disrespectful, I think," Legolas choked out, hand over mouth, tinges of pink appearing on his cheeks. He shook slightly as he spoke, fingers twisting. "Children should never make fun of their elders." He nudged Arwen, the gesture conspicuous on purpose, and let a small snigger escape. Arwen mocked an incensed expression, and stabbed him back with two fingers. 

"My dear princess," cooed Erestor from Elrond's left, "I believe it is also inappropriate totouch others in public. As in your current actions, my dear."

As soon as Erestor had uttered it, however, he let out an inaudible gasp and clamped a hand to his mouth. It was spoken in such a breathy tone, though, that everybody within earshot gawped at him, the whites about their orbs visible, eyebrows hoisted so high they were in danger of disappearing into their hair. For the first time in the history of Imladris, it was safe to assume, Erestor gulped and went a splendid rouge-red the color of ladies' berry lipstain - and Elrond, if possible, became even more violently colored.

"Erestor," he growled, the name seething through his teeth as if it had been dragged through a thicket of sharp iron spikes.

Legolas, Arwen and Lindir, to even more mystification, collapsed on top of each other and hollered like three laugh-riots. 

It was too much for the Counselor-in-Chief. Erestor, hands clutching at his throat, as flame-red as a glass of potent Gondorian fine wine, stumbled backwards and fled the scene, hair and attire streaming like mad kites - his Lord half goggling, half combusting after him, and perhaps a hundred other viewers watching in total shock. A pause of perhaps ten seconds followed — before the poor Half-Elven, shaking.

"I, uh" faltered Elrond, and the crowd stared aghast at him. Elf Lords never faltered in their speech.

"I don't even want to know."

Arwen, whose screams had now ebbed away into occasional snorts and aftershocks in the form of giggles, kicked herself free of Lindir's knee and slowly picked herself up, using Legolas's sprawled form as a stepping-pillow.

"Ow," the Prince moaned, and sat up also, shaking his golden waterfall vigorously to rid it of the dust burrs.

"Father," she called, ignoring Legolas, "you would _not_ want to know."

Elrond's lip twitched.

"Hmph. Indeed."

Arwen stared back at him, not speaking.

"If thendo not tell me," he muttered hastily, and he turned on his heel and walked away from the scene, both large hands cradling his head as if in pain. Arwen sniggered some, then turned her attention back upon the other elf.

"Legolas," uttered the Evenstar, her voice now as solemn as a decree from Aman, and the elf prince looked up.

"Youscared him away."

"I — huh?" fumbled out the Prince, tongue in knots. He looked wildly around, like a pony who had gotten tossed out to the middle of nowhere, and knew not where to gallop first. "Me? Who?"

"Yes. You. Erestor. And you have actually frightened him off!"

"Frightened him? Er"

"You _did_," asserted the Evenstar, eyes glinting.

"How?"

"You just _did_."

Silence.

"And — Legolas."

"Heuwhat?"

"I love you."

Again, silence.

And before he had received any notion of what had hit him, Arwen lunged down, yanked him up and locked him in a death-grip embrace; leaving the embarrassed Lindir to cower on the ground under his voluminous sleeves as if he were hiding from Morgoth himself. And Legolas Greenleaf became the reddest thing in upon all of Ennorath, next to the notorious Eye of Sauron.

End Part Four

Sindarin Translations:

Mae Govannen — well met

Ennorath — Middle Earth

A/N: I know this is a very short (and perhaps) stupid chapter, but, please forgive me. School hampers my Muse, and my schedule. Flames are always welcome, you know.

But, if you have not gotten the drift of the plot — Legolas "accidentally" spooked Erestor away (see chapter title) — which diverts the stalker's attention to him, making Legolas be seen as a rival. It also confuses Erestor because he now does not know who Arwen really loves — the elf-prince, or Aragorn — and it takes some of Erestor's hatred off the Dunedain and transfers it to the other person (which may or may not bring negative or positive results). Twisted, yes. I rest my case.

Next chapter shall come within two weeks. Until later, Ciao! ~ The Precocious Verok


	5. YES! A CONTINUATION NOTICE!

This Message is dated 4-22-03

My Dear Readers:

Clearly I am ashamed of myself. This is the first time in MONTHS that I have checked my review bin, nay, touched my author's account, and I am red in the face upon finding that so many people have been banging on my door for so long just to read another chapter. I had no idea that people would ever get that attached to my stories — so I am very surprised and grateful at this huge response.

You see, I've been holding up my fanfiction sprees (yeah, Verok, go figure) for quite a while. Not that I don't like writing fanfiction anymore — it's just that I've realized, way back while it was still 2002, that this was a form of art that was both energy-consuming and time-consuming. Unlike people who write original stuff and publish it on the book market, fanfiction authors write about ideas that people already have created — so that no matter how phenomenal of a writer he or she is, they'll never, ever get any form of return beyond web popularity. This is what I realized, and this is what caused my fanfiction Muse to dry up into a raisin. 

The reason that I took up writing fanfiction was that I loved the creations of other authors (no, really, and you people too?) — and because I couldn't come up with any original material. If I ever made up something myself, the other problem was, I never liked it enough to write about it. But for the past few months, I've been rumbling, and now I do have something original on my hands, and something I like. Now I'm writing furiously and, since I the crazy author want to get it copyrighted and sent to a publisher for possible review, I withheld it from FictionPress.net. The work is titled "In Veritas", Latin for "In Reality", and as I planned a three-book series, the subheading for the first one is "Carnival of Death". (By the way, my friend swears she's already heard of a published title like that, so if you can, please do help me with this. The title isn't final at all, so you can also drop in your suggestions. If you are so crazy with curiosity, I might even choose a few people to beta-read my proto-draft).

Even though I'm caught up in my "project-project" right now, after seeing all your reviews I'm so sorry about my neglecting you peoples that I want to continue this story just to make up for what I did. And I will put my Muse back into water to replenish herself. See you all in a few days, no?

Verok comes back


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